


Finding Common Ground

by Larsini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Confusion, Fluff, How Do I Tag, M/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larsini/pseuds/Larsini
Summary: John and Sherlock are enjoying a cozy, slightly tipsy night at Baker Street, with John having the tiniest crush on his flatmate and Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. Talking feelings and playing murder, I don't know how to summarize - enjoy!





	

''...and after evaluating all evidence, taking into consideration the victim's wealth and weight along with the suspects' possible motivation and the time it would have taken to commit the crime, move the body and return to their respective whereabouts before anyone noticed, I hereby come to the following conclusion... it was the reverend, without a doubt.''

''The reverend?''

''Yes. Despicable, really, a man of faith should know better.''

''Are you sure?''

''Yes, of course I am sure. He sneaked up on the victim once the other guests had cleared the room, killed him with a heavy blow to the back of the skull and deposited him in the hallway before fleeing the scene.''

''A heavy blow... the candlestick, then?''

''Possibly.''

''Yes or no?''

''How am I supposed to know? I wasn't given a chance to investigate the body!''

''Candlestick or...''

''Oh... _fine_. Yes, the candlestick. Seems like the only object that wouldn't raise suspicion.''

''In that case... you are wrong.''

''Preposterous. It's obvious!''

''Yes, obviously wrong.'' John turned his hand and held up his cards. ''See? Candlestick, reverend _and_ the dining room... you got it all wrong.'' The doctor couldn't help but grin, and his friend scoffed and stared at the board.

''The cards are wrong, John. It _had_ to happen that way, otherwise the reverend could have never...''

''No, they are _not_ wrong, _you_ are wrong. Drink up, I win this round.''

''Oh really?'' Sherlock's slender fingers closed around his glass, a little too tightly, and he glared at his friend. ''Who was it then?''

''Miss Scarlet in the library with the revolver.'' John reached for the cards in the middle of the board and turned them around, then grinned when they proved him right. ''See? I win.''

''Impossible. Someone would have heard the shot, and that woman is far too frail to carry a body that far. Someone would have seen her... unless she had an accomplice.'' The detective's jaw dropped. ''John, this is a conspiracy.''

''No, it's a game... and you lost. Drink up, Sherlock.'' John chuckled when he saw the detective's stupefied expression and reached for the bottle to refill his glass. He had never seen the man tipsy before, and it was surprisingly amusing.

Sherlock huffed and emptied his glass, then licked a wayward drop of wine off his lips. They were swollen and red, an obvious hint of his inebriation, and along with his dilated pupils, the ruffled curls and the opened collar he looked utterly beautiful. John stared a little longer than he would have usually dared, then raised the bottle to his lips and emptied it. Sherlock put down his glass and took a deep breath.

''This game makes no sense.'' He dismissively waved his hand. ''It seems unlikely that no one would have noticed. Isn't there a forensic team to analyze the scene? I am sure they would find blood in the dining room!''

''Sherlock.'' John grinned. ''It's a game. Just follow the rules and...''

''The rules are wrong!''

''It's a game! The rules are right, it just works that way!''

''Another round, or this will haunt me in my sleep.'' Sherlock leaned forward, far enough to have some restive locks fall into his eyes, and incidentally huffed them away. ''Do we have more wine? I like this one.''

''Obviously.'' John smirked and got up, hesitating for a moment when he felt his own dizziness catch up with him. With a faint smile on his lips he padded into the kitchen while tucking at his shirt. The alcohol was heating him up, and if they kept this up much longer he would have to go and change into something lighter. Sherlock had already shed his jacket, and John wondered what he would do if he got even warmer, as he doubted the detective owned something as casual as a T-shirt, let alone shorts or sweat pants. Even on a night like this the man dressed like a bloody model – and looked the part as well, which made it increasingly hard to focus on their game.

In every sense of the word.

''Why have we never done this before?'' he called from the kitchen while searching for another bottle. ''We should do this more often...''

''Get intoxicated and play murder?'' Sherlock asked back, a slight slur in his voice. ''In comparison to the real thing it seems rather pale.'' He hiccuped, and John rolled his eyes. ''But yes... maybe we should. I can't deny that it is... fun.'' It sounded thoughtful, and then the detective giggled.

 _Giggled_.

The doctor couldn't suppress a grin. He could never tell anyone about this, mostly because no one would believe it, but tipsy Sherlock was adorable.

''Glad you like it,'' he murmured when he returned to the parlor. ''See, that's what real people do to unwind.''

''That's what...'' Sherlock blinked at him with glazed, dark eyes. ''What _we_ used to do. Mycroft and me, when we were younger.'' He frowned at the bottle in John's hand. ''Without the wine, of course.''

''Really?'' John asked a little surprised. Sherlock never talked about Mycroft, especially not about their past. This might turn out quite interesting.

''Mh.'' The detective leaned back against the sofa and let his head fall into his neck. He was close to crossing the border between tipsy and drunk, and the broad, unusually relaxed grin on his lips spoke volumes. John returned to the sofa, somewhat unsteady on his feet, and slumped down a little closer to the man than he had intended, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

''We used to be... closer.'' His voice was quieter than before. ''Friends, I guess.''

''What changed?'' John reached for his glass and refilled it, then looked back to Sherlock. His head was tilted back far enough for the doctor to see the slow, steady pulse throb underneath the pale porcelain skin, and he swallowed. It was fascinating and unsettling at once.

Sherlock huffed.

'' _He_ did. Doesn't matter now.'' He turned his head to look at John through long, dark lashes, then grinned. ''Don't need him anymore, I have you now. That's better.'' Before John could say anything to that – what _could_ he say to that, really? - Sherlock had bobbed back into an upright position and picked up his glass, and a few drops of wine sloshed over the brim and ran down his fingers. He immediately switched the glass to the other hand and raised his hand to lick it off, and John bit back a curse and forced himself to look away when Sherlock sucked on his fingertips, oblivious of his friend's enthrallment. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

''So... another round, then?'' He could hear how tense his voice sounded. Damn wine. Damn Sherlock. Usually he could at least pretend to not be fascinated by the man, but right now, tipsy and comfortable and so close that their thighs touched, far too aware of his distinct, dark fragrance... John exhaled. _Pull yourself together, Watson, this is childish. You're better than that._

Except that he wasn't, not really. Not with Sherlock so close and happy and relaxed... John nearly jerked away when he felt a touch in his neck, realizing after a second that it was the detective's fingers, softly caressing his neck. Was this real? He swallowed.

''Not good?'' Sherlock sounded concerned, and when John turned his head he saw something akin to uncertainty in the glass shard eyes. He had to remind himself what that look meant.  _Is this okay or am I doing it wrong again, tell me, John, I don't understand it._

He really was adorable.

John blinked.

''No, it's... it's fine.''

''Good.'' Sherlock smiled and took another sip of his wine. ''I think I'm making progress. Remember when I hugged Lestrade? You were right, he seemed to like it.''

That was clearly an understatement – the Detective Inspector's jaw had nearly hit the ground in astonishment, and John had to grin when he remembered the poor man's thunderstruck look. It hadn't even been a real hug, just Sherlock brushing their sides against each other and patting the man's back, but for the detective it probably had felt like the equivalent of showering Lestrade in cuddles and kisses. John had been strangely proud of him. He knew that Sherlock hadn't liked it – he hated physical contact – but he had tried nevertheless. Had tried to behave like a human being. It was charming and odd and a clear sign of how much he secretly wanted to belong, and John found himself unable to stop smiling.

Sherlock scowled.

''Why are you grinning like that?'' His fingers still described small, soft circles in John's neck, and although the doctor didn't know how he had earned himself that treatment he relaxed a little and kept on smiling.

''I'm just... happy.''

''Happy.'' Sherlock pondered that word for a moment. ''Why?''

''I don't know.'' John raised the glass to his lips, then turned his head to look at his friend. His tipsy, brilliant, beautiful, oblivious friend. ''I just am.''

''Oh.'' Silence. ''Good.'' The stroking didn't cease, and lulled by alcohol and the gentle touch John closed his eyes and hoped it would never stop. It sent small, delicious shivers over his skin, up his scalp and down his back, and he was more than tempted to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder and let him continue this forever.

The detective seemed to indulge in thoughts of his own, and it took a long time before he spoke again.

''Another round?''

''Mh.'' John blinked and looked at the board before them. He could see Sherlock's legs, stretched out next to it, and frowned. They were quiet. No shuffling, no kicking, no wiggling of toes, and when his eyes wandered to the side and he spied the detective's left hand, still holding his glass, he found that his fingers were resting as well. No impatient drumming against the glass. In fact the detective's only movement was the slow, steady circling of his fingertips, still caressing John's neck. How odd.

''No.'' He took another slow, deep swig from his glass. ''I want to stay like this.'' His only response was a silent hum.

Something was off, that much was obvious. Sherlock _never_ sat quiet for so long. Whatever was going on in that magnificent head of his, it was keeping him calm. John smiled. Who would have thought that was even possible.

''John?'' Sherlock's voice was silent. Silent and dark and beautiful. John blinked again. Bloody hell, he needed to get a hold on himself.

''Yes?'' he asked. His own voice started to sound slurred.. or maybe he was just sleepy. The detective's touch did strange things to him.

Sherlock turned his head and stared into his eyes.

''There is no way she could have moved the body on her own.'' He was dead serious. John blinked. Then began to chuckle. Finally he used the opportunity and let his head loll against his friend's shoulder, feigning weakness from the breathless laughter, and sighed.

''You're an idiot, you know that?''

''No, I'm not.'' Sherlock sounded sulky, but his fingers had followed John's neck, and he didn't seem to mind the proximity. ''Look at her, she's far too thin, and shooting him would have made a mess. She would have left blood smears all over the place, on her dress, everywhere.''

''Her dress is red,'' John murmured and closed his eyes again, enjoying the feeling of the man's shirt – the purple one he liked so much – against his cheek. It was soft and silky and smelled good, and he smiled and nuzzled his head against the detective's shoulder. If he could just fall asleep like that he'd die a happy man.

Sherlock grumbled something, sending soft ripples through his thorax.

''The police in that... _game_ is a crime in itself. First they contaminate the crime scene and misplace the evidence, then they fail to conduct a proper investigation, and then they rely on guesswork, sheer luck and their _suspects_ to solve the case. That poor man should have just hung himself.''

''Could you stop applying real life criminology to a game meant for children?''

''How else are they going to learn it?''

''Oh, Sherlock...'' John shifted a little to look at his friend. ''Stop it,'' he told him softly. ''It was Miss Scarlet, you lost, live with it.'' He could feel the faintest scraping of nails over his skin, the only indication of Sherlock's displeasure. If he had known that alcohol turned the man so permissive he would have tried this earlier... although he wasn't sure whether he would be able to stand such treatment. The gentle scratching had sent a rather vicious shiver down his back, and a certain response in his lower stomach made him wonder whether it would be wiser to end this right now, before he made a bloody fool out of himself.

''You are drunk,'' Sherlock stated and stared into his eyes, unblinking and mesmerizing. ''You can't even surpass me when you're sober, what makes you think you can do it now?''

''Because you're... more drunk.'' John frowned. ''Something like that.''

''No, I'm not.'' It sounded appalled.

''Yes, you are. Obviously.'' John grinned when he parroted the detective's favorite phrase and earned himself a huff in return. ''Dilated pupils, slurred speech, incoherent thinking and lowered inhibitions. You are drunk.''

''Really?'' The detective flicked a brow, seemingly surprised. ''I don't feel drunk.''

''You're stroking me. That alone...'' John said with a yawn, ''...should be telling enough.''

''You don't like it?'' The detective furrowed his brows. ''Should I stop?''

''No.'' John smiled and once more lowered his head on Sherlock's shoulder. ''I like it. A lot.'' He wasn't half as drunk as he pretended to be, but... the opportunity was too good to let it pass, and so he feigned to stretch himself, shifted again until his body faced Sherlock's and finally lowered a hand on his chest, as innocently as possible. For the shortest of moments he felt the man tense, felt the stroking stop... and then it continued. John noticed his own pulse speeding up while he listened to the detective's heart, felt it pulse under his fingers, and smiled. This was damn close to perfection.

''Interesting,'' he heard his friend murmur.

''What is?'' he asked back silently.

''I seem to enjoy this.'' Was he imagining it or did Sherlock's voice sound husky? His eyes flew open. Impossible.

''What exactly?'' he inquired cautiously. ''The alcohol?''

''Touching you.'' It came back without emotion, but it still hit low. John swallowed. Sweet Jesus, please let this be true... ''John?''

''Hm?'' He blinked.

''You flinched. Does this make you uncomfortable?'' This voice. This dark, perfect, sultry voice, along with the gentle stroking of soft finger tips in his neck, along with that fragrant scent, along with... John inhaled.

''I'm fine.'' It sounded choked.

He was far from fine. He was burning, but he couldn't let it show. He couldn't. The moment he did Sherlock would turn away, he knew it – the man was probably viewing this as some kind of experiment, a chance to observe his body's response to alcohol. He would never, ever... John couldn't help it, a groan escaped his chest.

Immediately the stroking stopped.

''John?'' It was hardly more than a whisper in his ear, and the doctor tilted his head, looked up into the beautiful, confused face looming over him. He could feel his pulse throb in his temples, could feel his breath hitch in his throat. Stared at the way the light reflected in the detective's dilated ocean eyes, the way his dark, tangled curls framed his even face, the way his brows furrowed when he tried to determine the cause of John's distress.

And then his lips were on Sherlock's... just for a second. A heartbeat. The blink of an eye. His world went silent, seemed to topple away until he was floating, enraptured by the feeling of soft, full, slightly parted lips under his. Sherlock's scent in his nose. Sherlock's breath against his skin.

He jerked away, eyes wide, and stared at his friend.

Sherlock's face was a frozen mask.

''Sorry,'' John muttered, cursing himself in every way he knew, locked in place by the piercing glare from those perfect, dangerous eyes. ''Sorry, I... _sorry_. I'm sorry. The alcohol, I... I'm sorry. Bloody hell.'' He turned away and swallowed, tried to steady his breathing. Had he just kissed the man?!

Yes, he had... and it had felt amazing. He buried his face in his hands. _God_.

''That was...'' Sherlock hesitated. ''Unexpected.''

''Sorry, won't... won't happen again. Got carried away for a sec. I didn't...'' Damn it. Damn, what had he _done_? John could feel his cheeks burn and his heart hammer against his ribs and... something else. If he hadn't been so shocked at his own stupidity he might have turned around and kissed him again, just to taste these beautiful lips again.

''It's... alright, I guess.'' Sherlock sounded distracted. ''No, uh... no need to chastise yourself.'' He cleared his throat. ''A little brash, I guess, and I thought we had it sorted out... well, I had no idea.'' A small pause. ''I am flattered.''

''Shut up, Sherlock, just... don't make this worse by trying to talk about it.'' John slumped back against the couch and stared into the room, avoiding the man's eyes. ''You're horrible at that.''

''Sorry.'' Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the detective raise his glass to his lips. He seemed utterly unfazed. John scowled.

''Aren't you going to...''

''Yes?'' Sherlock turned his head to look at him. No anger. No reproach. Just open, curious interest. What the hell was wrong with that guy?

''Aren't you going to be mad at me?'' John asked, feeling stupid. Sherlock frowned, his confusion more than obvious.

''Mad at you? For what?'' He raised a finger to his mouth and tentatively ran it over his lower lip. ''Admittedly, it hurt a bit, but... I won't hold that against you. The angle was odd.'' He shrugged. ''Like I said, I'm flattered.''

''Flattered,'' John echoed weakly. He had just drunkenly kissed his best friend, his best _asexual_ friend at that, and that was the response. Flattered.

All things considered that wasn't even that bad. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... you just looked...''

''Yes?'' Sherlock asked when he didn't continue, as composed as if they were talking about the weather. John bared his teeth. His body felt like it was burning, he had made a complete fool out of himself, and on top of that his heart ached with the realization that this was it. This was all he would ever get, and it wasn't as if he could just get up and leave. He _needed_ that man, he'd have to live with the pain.

And Sherlock was entirely fine with it. Bastard. John turned his head and glared at him.

'' _Beautiful_. You looked bloody beautiful, you know that? With your... your eyes, and your cheekbones and your cursed lips... _beautiful_!'' He said it again to make sure the detective understood it, nearly spat it in his face. ''So yes, I _know_ we talked about it, but I couldn't stop myself, and you know what? I'm not even sorry! Stop being so damn sexy, maybe that will help, and... and don't look at me like that!'' The detective's eyes seemed to pierce right into his soul, dark and thoughtful and attentive and curious, as if this was one of their usual talks about how to not insult people or behave like a human being, and he seemed genuinely taken aback at the sudden surge of anger. John clenched his jaw and snatched his glass off the table.

He needed to get the taste of Sherlock's lips out of his mouth.

Next to him Sherlock seemed frozen again, staring ahead in absolute silence, now and then blinking. Apparently he didn't know how to deal with John's words. Good. The doctor reached for the bottle again. At least he wasn't the only one who didn't know what to do.

Finally he heard his friend take a deep breath.

''You really think that?''

''What?'' John muttered past his glass. The wine seemed to choke his throat and only fuel the fire in his nerves, but at least it helped soothe the turmoil in his head. In his heart.

''That I'm beautiful.'' Sherlock stared at him, and John lowered his glass. Stared back, at the man who had barged into his life and turned it all upside down and changed it forever. He managed a weak chuckle.

''Did you ever look in the mirror? You're bloody perfection.''

''Oh.'' The detective took some seconds to think about that. By the look of it he had already processed the incident... the kiss. He had _kissed_ him. Kissed Sherlock Holmes, and apparently it was absolutely fine. If it hadn't driven a dagger into his heart John might have laughed. Sherlock was so far detached from this world he might as well be drifting in outer space... it was amazing, really, and it _hurt_.

Instead of laughing the doctor once more buried his face in the glass. Time to drink himself into a stupor.

''Thank you,'' Sherlock finally said. He was still staring ahead, blinking rapidly, giving his best impression of a calculator busy with an exceptionally complex equation. John had a vague idea of what was going on in his head, of what he was trying to puzzle out. The definition of beauty, most likely, along with the probability of further... incidents, the appropriate reaction, John's possible expectations and what all of this said about their relationship. Whether they could continue their partnership. Whether the effort of ignoring John's emotions would be worth the outcome.

The doctor slumped a little and fixed his eyes on his glass. Fine mess he had gotten himself into.

''I don't...'' Sherlock finally said when his calculations had apparently made some progress. ''I am not sure how to react. What it means.'' His brows furrowed in confusion. ''It makes no sense.'' The look he gave his friend was close to pleading. _Please John I don't understand what does it mean explain it to me._

If anyone had known that the great Sherlock Holmes was secretly an idiot... John huffed. Swallowed. Decided he might as well make the best of it and hope his friend learned something in the process. Maybe there would come a day when they could laugh about it.

It seemed damn unlikely, but icy silence would hardly make it better.

''Fine. Ask ahead... it's not like there's anything left to lose.'' He watched the wine swirl in his glass, prepared for everything.

''Do you harbor... romantic feelings for me?'' The words seemed to hesitate before leaving Sherlock's lips. The perfect, angelic, soft, swollen lips that had made John's world stop and left him breathless. The doctor sighed.

''In a way. I... yes. Yes, I do.'' It was easier than expected.

''Why didn't you tell me?''

''Are you serious?'' He scowled at him. ''Why would I?''

''Why not?'' Sherlock's face was blank. He really didn't understand it. The doctor shook his head.

''Good God. You can be pretty dense, you know that?'' He couldn't suppress a joyless grin. ''I was afraid, you dork. I knew it was in vain, and I didn't want to... to make you feel uncomfortable.'' His lips twisted. ''Seeing where that got us that's a rather weak excuse, really.''

''Why would it make me feel uncomfortable?'' Sherlock frowned and took a thoughtful sip from his glass. ''It's... nice. In a way. To know you... like me that much.'' Another sip. ''Unexpected, but... well, flattering.''

''Say flattering one more time and I'll hit you,'' John warned dryly. He should have known. He really should have known that Sherlock was far too... _different_ to react the way he had expected it. Sherlock responded with a silent hum. John watched from the corner of his eyes, feeling tense. When he saw the man's eyes widen, for a mere fraction of a heartbeat, he knew what would come next.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him, a hint of concern in his eyes.

''Does that include...''

''Yes.'' John pursed his lips. ''It does.''

''Oh.'' He heard the detective swallow. _Not so calm now, are we?_ He emptied his glass and once more reached for the bottle, realizing it would soon be empty. Good. Maybe that would give him an excuse to go to bed and hate himself.

''Does _that_ make you feel uncomfortable?'' he asked, seemingly unconcerned. He knew what Sherlock thought about sex. Well, he didn't _know_ , they had never talked about it, but after living with him for so long he had a pretty good idea. The man was as cold as a block of ice, regardless who threw themselves at him. After all not even the Woman had broken through, and she had really pulled all registers on him.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

''I am not... entirely sure.'' _What?_ ''I guess that would require some testing.'' _WHAT?_

John stared at him with parted lips.

''What?'' He couldn't help it, his voice broke halfway through. His friend looked back with raised brows.

''I said that would require some testing.''

''Testing.'' John licked his lips, then put down the bottle. ''I don't think I follow.'' He watched curious expression fall into a frown.

''John, you shouldn't drink so fast. Judging by your reaction I assumed this mattered to you, we can't talk about it when you can't even follow the most simple of statements.'' Sherlock's voice was so derogatory, so matter-of-fact, so calm, that John couldn't hold back a weak chuckle. This man would be the death of him.

''I... I heard you,'' he finally clarified, then blinked. ''But I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me.''

''Dear me.'' Sherlock sighed. ''How do you even exist, it must be so tedious. Does your head already hurt from reading the paper or does it require the simultaneous feat of standing up straight to exhaust your mental capacities?''

''Yes, yes, skip the insults, I've heard it all before. What exactly does... testing mean?''

''It refers to a procedure of critical...''

''Sherlock!'' John shook his head. '' _Not_ what I'm talking about. What does testing mean in regard to whether or not you are feeling uncomfortable?'' He ended the question by quickly pouring some more wine down his throat. The hangover would be terminal, he could feel it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

''It means that, as I never entertained the possibility of you thinking of me in that way until now, I will have to make myself... familiar with the idea before taking any further steps. I can't just decide that off the top of my head.''

''Decide what?'' John dearly wished they had something stronger in store... vodka, maybe. Or arsenic. He doubted he'd survive this night if Sherlock kept up this routine of holding him on the edge of his seat, heart tight to the point of cracking and head throbbing with a building headache.

''Decide whether it would be something I might enjoy.''

''Wait.'' John blinked. ''Wait a moment.'' This couldn't be what he was talking about. Right? No. Definitely not. Or... maybe? He frowned and watched his friend. Sherlock stared back at him, utterly unimpressed by John's inner turmoil. Could it be?

Seconds passed, turned into minutes, and the two men continued to study each other, neither of them saying a word. Finally Sherlock broke the silence.

''I can't rush this, John, I'm sorry.'' It sounded defensive. The doctor licked his lips.

''Rush... what exactly? What exactly are you... what are you even talking about?''

''The physical aspect of our relationship.'' Sherlock looked confused and reproachful. ''Were you even listening?''

''The what?'' John's mouth fell open. ''What... what relationship... physical aspect? _What_?!''

''That... was what you meant, wasn't it?'' Sherlock blinked. ''I thought I had made myself clear.''

''No... no, you haven't! Bloody hell...'' John stared ahead, lips parted in disbelief, too stunned for words. ''I had no idea what you were talking about!''

''Oh. Well, like I said, you shouldn't drink so much.'' The detective crossed his arms. ''I was only trying to...''

''What relationship?'' John repeated, fingers dangerously tight around his glass. He quickly put it down on the table, nearly toppling it, then turned to Sherlock. Those eyes. Those beautiful, crystal eyes. This couldn't be happening.

''Our relationship,'' Sherlock replied unimpressed. ''I assumed you made it clear that was what you had in mind. Was I wrong?'' Honest confusion. John blinked.

''You are telling me...'' He hesitated, not sure how to put this. ''You want to have a relationship with me?''

''It seems to be the logical next step, doesn't it? I honestly doubt it would change that much, really, apart from the vague hope that you might stop yelling your sexual orientation at everyone who will listen.'' A quick smirk flitted over the detective's lips. ''I really don't understand why this is so difficult for you, a moment ago you seemed to encourage the idea.'' Sherlock took a sip from his glass. ''Maybe we should discuss this while sober.''

''I can't believe it.'' John slumped into the cushions. His heart seemed to try and escape his chest, and when he raised a hand he saw that it was shivering. This couldn't be true.

But then again, this was Sherlock. There were no limits to his brilliant stupidity.

For a moment he just listened to his pounding heart, to the blood rushing in his ears, to the tiny voice in the back of his head that insisted he was getting it all wrong. He didn't know what to do. What do think. He didn't know what to say, and finally he realized that this would get them nowhere. The questions, the misunderstandings, his own stuttering and Sherlock's incomprehensible manner of answering in a way that held no informational value at all – not on an emotional level -, it would bring them nowhere.

He swallowed and turned to Sherlock.

''Would you...'' His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and he swallowed. ''Would you mind stroking me again?'' The question seemed to surprise the detective, and John waited with bated breath. That would make the matter clear. That would tell him what the hell was going on.

Then Sherlock smirked... no, _smiled_.

''Not at all.''

John felt as if he was melting. He hardly noticed the relieved sigh escaping his chest, and only when Sherlock had shifted a little closer, watching him with curiously narrowed eyes, and his finger tips touched the doctor's neck did he return to the presence. To Sherlock staring at him. To his fingers caressing him. To them, sitting thigh to thigh, looking into each other's eyes.

John chuckled and slowly leaned into the touch.

''You mean it, then,'' he murmured silently, still not entirely convinced. ''You want... this. Us?''

''You are awfully slow tonight. I believe I made that more than clear.''

''No.'' John swallowed, then moved closer, eyes still locked on Sherlock's. ''No, you didn't. This... is not how you do it. This is not how you start... a relationship.'' If that was what it was. Could it be? Impossible. Or... maybe? John's head was swimming.

''How do you do it then?'' They were both speaking silently, but there was no... emotion in Sherlock's voice. Not really. Just curiosity and the faintest hint of relief. Another hurdle taken. Another secret of interaction uncovered. John couldn't help but feel like they were on different pages... no, they were on the same page. Right now they were on the same page, but reading different books. If that made any sense. He didn't know and he didn't care, he was drunk and tired and Sherlock was stroking his neck. He couldn't think.

''I don't know.'' He let himself sink deeper into the cushions, smiling at the heat radiating off the slender body next to him. ''We will have to talk about it.''

'' _Oh_.'' Sherlock rolled his eyes. ''Why do we always have to talk?''

''Because I still don't know what's going on.'' John swallowed. ''Because I don't think this is really happening, and because... I have no idea what you want.'' He didn't know what else to say, and Sherlock's fingers slowed, finally came to a rest. Spread out until his palm touched the back of John's head. There was no real tenderness in his eyes, none John could recognize, but the smile on his lips... God, that smile. It looked unearthly beautiful. And soft. And genuine.

''This,'' Sherlock said after some pondering, his voice close to a whisper. ''Right now is fine. I like that.''

''Good.'' John nodded slowly, then shifted closer until he could once more place his head on his partner's shoulder. ''Good. That's all I wanted.''

''Really?'' The detective sounded surprised, his palm gently stroking the back of John's hand. ''I thought you wanted...'' A short pause. ''More.''

''Not now.''John tilted his head and looked up, stared into Sherlock's face, so close to his. Wondered whether he should kiss him. No. No, he decided, that could wait. They'd do this slowly. Very, very slowly. No rush. No decisions off the top of their heads.

They needed to do some testing first.

He smiled.

 


End file.
